The Kindling (18 page)

Then they were done here. “Nay, I am well enough rested and the cramp is gone, for which I thank you.” He raised himself, braced his body, and stepped past her. But they were not done.

Upon reaching the door, he looked around and wished he had not, for the glow of the brazier slipped through the weave of her chemise. “I would not dishonor you by asking you to be my leman,” he said. “I want more than that, but unless I can defend you and John, I can offer you naught.”

There was more, and though one of the lessons his father had taught him would be violated, he said, “Come the morrow, I will again take a sword to hand and, if God wills it, I will reclaim what those miscreants stole from me.” He dipped his head. “Good eve.”

Hardly able to breathe, Helene wavered between sorrow and joy. Sorrow for his hatred of Aldous and Robert Lavonne that would only draw him farther from God and, quite possibly, poison him against her, and joy for what he had revealed in so few words. He wished to defend her and her son and, once he was able to—and she had to believe it was possible—he would be with them.

Though joy inched nearer, she pushed it behind her, knowing it would hurt all the more if she yielded to it only to have it slap her in the face should this man she loved turn from her. And he might do so even if he regained enough of the warrior he had been that he could be with John and her, for as honest as she strove to be, she still could not bring herself to reveal she was as much a Lavonne as any born to the name, legitimate or otherwise.

Hearing the last of his footsteps and the creak of the door below, she returned to her bed and this time hardly noticed the mattress’s welcoming embrace.

You must tell him of the blood that runs through your veins more thickly than even it runs through Christian Lavonne’s.

 
“I shall,” Helene assured the voice she recognized as belonging as much to herself as Sister Clare.

Now, Helene.

“I cannot.”

Already you have waited too long.

“Have I?” She shook her head upon the pillow. Had she told him when she had first stood before him in his chamber, that very day he would have seen the back of her, for she could not have stood firm against his hatred for her father and brother—hatred for which she would surely have become but another vessel. Too, even had she been able to stand against that hatred, once his family had known her secret, they themselves would have seen her away from Soaring.

Even so, you should have held your head high and told the truth, for you are not responsible for the sins of men you hardly knew, men who abused you.

She squeezed her eyes closed. “I would not have been given the chance to help him, and I have helped Abel, have I not?”

You think that justifies a lie?

“I have not lied to him.”

What you hide holds meaning for him. To deny him is as much a lie as if he guessed and you told him nay.

“It is not
my
sin.”

Tell him!

“He will not understand.”

Then he is unworthy.

“He will hate me.”

The longer you wait, the more deserving you will be of his hatred.

Shivering at the thought of how he would look upon her, so different from when he had kissed her, she dragged the pillow over her head.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “I have but the breath of a promise from him, and yet I so fear losing it that I turn from doing what I know is right. I should pray for strength to do what You would have me do, but I do not want that strength. I do not want him to see the men responsible for all he has lost when he looks at me—more, when he looks at John.”

She breathed out what should have been a sigh but was nearer a sob.

“I cannot even ask for Your forgiveness.” Certainly not as long as she refused to turn the way she knew He wished her to go. “I cannot.”

What had he done?

Not what he had intended to do, which was to remain true to the vow he had made himself all those years ago—a vow that had kept him alive and at peace far better than when he had wed Rosamund and bled for all the lies she and her family had told and the truths not told. The latter were the worst, of course, for no defense could be mounted against what had been omitted about the state of his wife’s mind.

Helene is different,
he told himself where he lay upon the mattress.
She is true.

With her and her boy, he could make a life beyond Wulfen Castle. A good life, providing she would wait for him as was necessary for him to become again what she and John needed—a man able to protect them and their home, who did not require a staff to keep him upright, whose sword swung swift and true.

More than even when he had been capable of all those things and had carried her from the cave, it was what he longed for. Too much, indeed, for he had given her hope as he should not have done. Not yet.

Was it love that had made him speak what he should not have spoken—that emotion that was more dangerous to a man of the sword than any other and to which his eldest brother had succumbed? Was it that which Helene felt for him? When she had spoken of Durand, she had said her heart lay elsewhere. Surely that meant she loved…

Abel grunted. Had he never met Helene, he would not be plagued by such ponderings.

Nor is it likely you would have ventured from this chamber—or do what you determined to do when you told her you would again take up a sword.

“Aye,” he murmured, then turned his thoughts to the morrow and flexed his left hand as if to grip the wire-wrapped hilt of the sword he would wield against his opponent—in this case, the man who had kissed Helene of Tippet ahead of him.

Chapter Fifteen

He had not taken his sleeping draught on the night past and was as absent from his chamber as he had been from the hall where she had expected to find him breaking his fast. Had he accompanied Lady Beatrix and Lord D’Arci on their ride? She rejected the possibility, certain Abel would not insert himself between his sister and her husband.

Hefting the tray, Helene wrinkled her nose at the wine-drenched scent of putrified herbs and wondered how well Abel had slept without benefit of the draught. Had he forgotten to drink it? Or decided it was too much trouble to retrieve the goblet?

She sighed and carried the tray down to the kitchen where a boy hastened forward to relieve her of the burden.

“Thank you,” she said, “Have you seen Sir Abel this morn?”

He bobbed his head. “Was here at dawn. Had me fill a skin of wine and wrap bread and cheese for him.”

Unable to keep surprise from her voice, she said, “Do you know his destination?”

His round-as-apple cheeks rose toward his eyes. “I would guess the training field since he did wear a sword upon his belt—the same as Sir Durand.”

Helene sucked a breath so sharp she had to cough to keep from choking on her saliva. When the boy’s smile faltered and he took a step toward her, she waved a hand, said, “I am fine,” and hastened to the garden door.

Flooded with imaginings of Abel and Durand meeting over swords and certain Abel would endure only as long as his opponent deigned to toy with him, Helene ran and keenly felt the weight of her skirts that sought to upend her.

Deciding her ankles could do with an airing, she raised her skirts high, not caring what any thought, knowing only that she must stop the foolishness that had made Abel challenge Durand—a knight who might not have been the warrior Abel had once been but would now have little difficulty besting him.

The inner training field to the far right of the gatehouse was occupied, but it took only a sweep of the eyes to ascertain that Abel and Durand were not among those who practiced at arms. Of course not, for it was not practice they were at, was it?

As she looked over the buildings and enclosures within the outer bailey, her gaze found the captain of the guard who advanced on her.

“What has so roused you, Helene?”

She quickly gained his side. “Sir Abel and Sir Durand—have you seen them?”

“They rode out a half hour past.”

Her heart surged. “Where did they go?”

“They do not answer to me, but a meeting of swords can be heard coming from the north meadow beyond the rise.”

She started to step around him, but he gently caught her arm. “Surely you do not intend to go there.”

“I do.”

“They are practicing at swords.”

Should she tell him she believed it was not mere practice they engaged in, that never would Abel agree to such? That what had once been friendship between the two men was, at best, bitter rivalry that could turn deadly if it had not already?

She swallowed. “Sir Abel is my patient, and I have not given him leave to engage in such activity.”

“He appeared most ready. And eager.”

She nearly pointed out that
she
was the healer, but she knew the man was only trying to be helpful. She eased her arm out of his hold. “I must needs speak with him. Now.”

He sighed. “I would accompany you, but I am needed upon the walls. If you wait, I will find a man-at-arms to take you.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I do not require an escort.” She stepped around him and, with his protest sounding in her ears, continued to the gatehouse and over the drawbridge.

Unfortunately, there was no road by which the north meadow could be reached and the tall, prickly grass caught at her hose as she raised her skirts higher to more easily forge a path toward the rise whence the ring of steel issued.

It was not a long distance but, with her heart pounding and a light wind in her face, it seemed ages before she reached the top of the rise. And there they were below in the center of that broad bowl of a meadow, both on horses drawn alongside to allow the riders to come within striking distance of one another.

Abel’s struggle was immediately evident as he not only wielded a sword with a hand unaccustomed to the weight and precision needed to do so, but Durand had the greater advantage of a right-handed grip that did not require him to reach his sword across his body and horse as Abel’s left-handed grip forced him to do to defend his person.

Helene ran down the slope. “Cease!” she cried, but they seemed not to hear her above the clash and ring of met blades.

As she neared, Abel spurred his horse aside, turned it to face the same direction as Durand’s, and once more drew near his opponent. Having removed one of the obstacles presented by his left-handed grip, he drove his blade against the other knight’s with such force that, were it night, sparks would surely be seen.

Knocked to the side, for a moment it appeared that Durand might lose his saddle, but he righted himself, turned his horse, and spurred it to the opposite side to once more force Abel to reach his sword across his body.

“Cease!” she called again.

And, perhaps, her voice was as much Abel’s undoing as his battle with Durand. His gaze landed on her a moment before his opponent delivered a blow to his blade that knocked him sideways. And, unlike Durand, he was unable to recover quickly enough to remain astride.

“Nay!” Helene cried as he crashed to the ground so near his horse’s hooves that, if he was not already broken, the animal might soon see to it.

A moment later, Durand shouted a warning that drew her gaze from Abel to the horse now heading for her.

She sprang to the side and, when the great animal huffed past, resumed her course. However, when she reached Abel, he was already on his feet.

“Why are you here?” he demanded as he drove the tip of his sword into the ground.

Breathless with exertion and fear, she halted before him. “Fools!” she spat and spun around to look upon Durand so he would know he also bore that distinction.

“I was told it was what you wanted,” the mounted knight said, and it jolted her that he should look so near a smile, as if this was but a game to him.
Was
it a game? Only swordplay? Unfortunately, she had witnessed too little of the training of warriors, but even so, what she had seen between these two men seemed far too violent.

She shook her head. “This is
not
what I wanted! This is not practice!”

“’Tis a Wulfrith knight’s training,” Abel growled at her back.

She whipped around. “Training that draws blood?”

“If it can be had.”

Longing to slap him to his senses, Helene snapped, “Regardless, you are not ready for this—”

“I am past ready, and that you interfere and tell me what I am and am not ready for is the reason no women are allowed within the walls of Wulfen Castle, Helene of Tippet.”

She stared at him where he braced himself upright, and it was all she could do to keep from stepping nearer to closely examine his cuts and abrasions and whatever damage might be found beneath the bloodied rips in his sweat-stained tunic.

“I have but granted the favor you did not win,” he said. “Now leave us to it.”

“This is not my favor.”

“Leave us!”

As she continued to brave his gaze, she realized the anger there was likely as much for her gainsaying him as the humiliation of her having witnessed his loss of the saddle.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned away so he would not hear it shudder from her. Then, setting her gaze upon Durand, she stepped toward him.

“Helene!” Abel barked. “Lest you forget, ‘twas I who won the wager.”

She looked over her shoulder. “But I cannot be said to be alone with him, can I?”

As his face darkened further, she returned her attention to Durand and drew alongside his horse. “Why did you agree to this?”

He leaned down and said low, “I did it for you, the Wulfriths, and the friendship I so callously cast aside.”

“You should not have. Truly, I do not believe he is ready.”

“And I believe you are wrong. He is a Wulfrith.” He reached forward as if to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but seemed to think better of it and returned his hand to the pommel of his saddle. “I am thinking you told him I kissed you.”

She nodded.

He sighed. “Worry not, I shall not kill him, though I believe he wishes to kill me. Now go.”